


One Big Universe

by fitried



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: College AU, Confessions, Dorks in Love, First Kiss, Fluff, House Party, M/M, Space Metaphors, literally just fluff and loads of metaphors, loads of space metaphors, mentions of drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 07:37:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5366768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitried/pseuds/fitried
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Marco is beautiful, and Jean is head over heels in love.</p><p>But he isn't the only one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Big Universe

**Author's Note:**

> [Mood Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AdD8Emu-T64)
> 
> I may or may not have gotten carried away with the Space.  
> I may or may not be completely unapologetic about it.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/fitried_), [tumblr](http://fitried.tumblr.com/)
> 
> (PLS TELL ME WHAT U THINK. K. THANKS)

 

 

 

_I'm on the outside of love_  
_Always under or above_  
_Must be a different view_  
_To be a me with a you_  
**Nada Surf – Inside of Love**

 

Marco has always been beautiful.

 

He was beautiful when he was 10, with his blue braces and large brown eyes, and he was beautiful two years later when the blue came off and gave way to a straight set of teeth in his ever-present smile. He was beautiful when he was 15 and he still lugged around his Looney Toons backpack and old Samsung despite what everyone else had to say about it. He was beautiful when his shoulders broadened and his voice got deeper and richer but his freckles still lay scattered all over him like the stars he loves so much. Marco has always been beautiful, but he was the most beautiful at 5 when he stretched out his pudgy hand and offered to be friends with the loneliest, grumpiest, 4 year old in town.

Or so Jean used to think, until he saw Marco sitting next to him on the sofa at 20 with a half-drunk bottle of cheap beer in his hand and the air of someone whose thoughts had long left the confines of the room.

Jean has never liked loud parties, or big crowds, and, thankfully, this party is neither loud nor crowded. It’s a small affair with only their closest friends and the rest of them have all gathered at the dining table to watch Eren get drunk off his ass. That leaves just Jean and Marco, and this feeling of just them both being isolated from the rest of the world as they sit in silence next to a room that bustles with activity.

There’s something particularly ethereal about Marco tonight; he’s looking towards the balcony door as he chews on his lips, his hair askew like he’s run his fingers through it a hundred times today, and this look in his eyes that flickers between worry and determination. He looks stressed, and distant, but there’s a gleam in his eyes and his dark hair glows red when the light falls upon it from the small lamp above them. He’s so beautiful.

Jean has seen Marco laughing, and running, and singing, and even _shirtless_ , but he’s never seen him look quite this gorgeous all his life. He can’t figure out just _why_. He’d heard someone say once that the people you love always seem the most extraordinary when they’re being ordinary and, although it was probably just Connie at 2am, it makes so much sense to him now.

Maybe it’s just the mood, or the atmosphere, or the light, but it really just feels like there’s something _different_ about Marco tonight. Jean is tempted to ask, he really is, but he doesn’t want to disturb whatever space his best friend is in right now; he’s content just watching the way Marco looks, and with the fact that he is comfortable enough to share his moment with Jean. But then again, he’s always been generous.

Usually, Jean stops himself from staring too long or saying anything that might give it away, but it all feels so pointless today. He’s staring at Marco without reserve and drinking in every detail and counting every freckle for the thousandth time, he never tires of it. He watches as the brunet’s lips part in a sigh and wishes he could tell his best friend that he loves him so much, and so intensely, but he can’t, so he just observes him instead. What would Marco say if he knew that Jean has been helplessly in love with him for so long? What would he do? Would he leave?

Marco squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath, his chest rising and then slowly relaxing. His red lips part again and this time, he speaks.

“Hey, Jean?”

His voice is so gentle it doesn’t even break the silence; it just weaves itself into it and solidifies this mood into something tangible. Jean is too lost to reply for a few seconds, but when he does, his voice is just as quiet.

“Yeah, Marco?”

The brunet breathes in again, a pretty flush on his cheeks and this rock hard strength in his gaze when he turns to face Jean. He’s so incredible, and even more beautiful up front, Jean swallows.

“So, you know how I really love space, right?” he asks, Jean nods dumbfounded and blinks twice, hoping to clear his head. He pictures Marco on Christmas Eve, sneezing into his grandmother’s handkerchief and pointing out the Winter Triangle as they both lay on the cold grass. He knows.

Marco bites his lip, and continues with a deep breath, “Well”, he says, “I could tell you about the surface area of the sun in terms of football fields, and I could tell you how big the largest known star is in comparison to this sun, and _then_ I could tell you the approximate size of, say, a tiny nebula and then correlate that to the size of a galaxy, and these are all units that are much too big for us to understand because we simply can’t think that big, but comparisons make it easier, yeah?”

“Yeah?” says Jean, watching as Marco’s composure steadily gives way to the worry that’s clearly gnawing at him. Why has he brought this up out of nowhere?

“Um…s-so I haven’t really told you these comparisons and it would be easier to show you through a diagram anyway, but what I really mean to say is; I really do know about the actual size and vastness of the cosmos, in numbers, at least.” Marco breathes in again, composure returning with the determination in his eyes and voice still as gentle as ever, “I know all this math, and this is most probably just my human incapability of truly visualizing that’s talking, here, but…despite knowing, in theory, the grand scale of this universe…I still firmly believe that you are worth the entirety of it.”

Jean’s heart stops beating.

A silence rings in his ears as he tries to process what he’s just heard, but no sound comes out when he opens his mouth to speak. He doesn’t know what to think, maybe he’s just dreaming this entire night up, maybe Marco’s had more than just half that bottle to drink, maybe this is some cruel joke. He simply gapes straight ahead, watching as Marco’s face flushes even darker in the pale light.

This can’t be real.

“See, I know that you’re a pinprick of a human in a vast world that would make only the tiniest fraction of the sun, which too is beyond even being significant in this universe. But, I still think that, you, although relatively invisible, are everything all together.” Marco’s face looks like its glowing from the way the light is hitting it right now, but Jean refuses to accept that he isn’t making this up in his head.

He must be, Marco would never, never, _neve-_

“Maybe” he continues, oblivious to how loudly Jean’s heart is beating, “Maybe this is my round-about way of saying that I’m...I’m madly in love with you, and hopelessly blinded by it, but, I- ‘I love you’ just doesn’t seem to cover it anymore.”

He-

He must be joking.

Jean can’t breathe.

He can’t _breathe._

He’s on drugs; someone must have slipped him something because, no…not him. Not him not him not _him whodidthis why is Marco saying this **how** canthis be?_

His heart is beating rapidly and at last, _at last _,__ his lungs recover and he inhales sharply, and then no air is enough at all. He’s still gaping wide at the boy in front of him, and he can see that pretty flush drain quickly as Marco makes to move away from him. Why does he look so scared? Why is he moving away? Is he calling out for Jean? Oh God, he is. Jean tries to talk, tries to ask and answer but _he can’t speak and Marco is going to leave him he’s going to **go**_.

“I’m-I’m so sorry, Jean.” he’s almost whimpering now, that fearless look in his eyes has been replaced with terror and he won’t even look at Jean, “They all told me th-that I had a good chance and that you might feel something for me t-too but I’m _sorry_ I shouldn’t have-“ he pauses, he’s breathing so fast.

Wait. Marco thinks _Jean_ doesn’t love _him_? That’s why he’s so scared?

“I shouldn’t have assumed it so easily and I didn’t know you’d react like this but I should’ve _known_ Jean, I- “

It’s seeing Marco like this that does the trick.

“-should’ve tried to be a little less blunt about it, this is- “

It’s as if, suddenly, a switch has been flicked in his head.

“Marco.” he breathes

His best friend won’t listen; he just shakes his head as his fingers dig into the sofa beneath them.

“You don’t have to say anything back its wrong to put you in this position-“

“Marco, please.”

“-you’ve never been anything but nice to me and I- “

“Marco, listen to me.”

“-just jumped on you. I’m sor- “

“I’ve been in love with you for three years.”

It’s Marco’s turn to be speechless.

His lips stops moving mid sentence and his dark eyes blow wide. He sits as if frozen, jaw hanging slack and nails still deep into the couch.

He’s whispering almost to himself when he asks a quiet “what?”

He looks up slowly and is met with Jean’s amber eyes boring into his with a sureness he has never seen in them before.

Jean moves closer, until they are both just inches apart, hearts beating hard in unison, as though just one pulse instead of two.

“I love you, Marco, and not being able to say that to you has been killing me. I _love you_ more than I can hold inside me.” When he speaks, his voice is loud enough to only be heard by them both, and he is close enough for him to see the tiny cracks in Marco’s lips or the even tinier pores on his warm skin. God, he’s never wanted to kiss this boy more than he does right now. He’s being stared at by Marco’s chocolate eyes and he’s never been more awake. Jean has never been much of an author, but he could write pages of poetry on those dark irises alone.

He can feel Marco’s breath warm on his nose when he exhales, and it almost raises goosebumps all over his body.

“Are-are you serious?” whispers the brunet, his fingers finally relenting their hold on the sofa, where they have left marks on the leather. He looks just the way Jean had felt when it was Marco who was confessing, he understands.

Jean scoffs quietly, deliberately sliding his hand closer, “I have never been more serious my entire life.”

Marco nods, blinks, and breathes in deeply (once, twice, thrice), and then he looks at Jean with this part scared, part hopeful, rise of his eyebrows.

“Is this real?” he asks. Like _he’s_ finding is hard to believe someone could fall in love with _him_. What a beautiful idiot.

“If it isn’t, I’m going to pull some sci-fi shit and make sure I stay here forever.” says Jean, his hand resting on Marco’s knee, now, where his skin feels like it’s been set alight.

That makes him giggle and, from this close, it’s possible to count even the tiniest of crinkles that form around his eyes when he smiles. Marco’s cheeks are rosy and he has the biggest, brightest grin plastered over his face, like all of his favourite stars came together and lit up his face tonight, just for Jean. That look in his eyes, it’s just for Jean.

How the _hell_ does _anyone_ get that lucky?

“You’re such a dork, Jean.” he mutters, eyes flicking briefly to Jean’s hand on his knee and his smile growing wider and prettier still.

Jean grins back and chooses to just absorb as much of this moment as he can. There’s a fuzzy feeling in his chest that tells him this will change everything, and he doesn’t want to miss a second, but there’s no way there can be enough of this. He watches Marco’s nervous shoulders slowly relax as his hand slides slowly closer to Jean’s; just barely touching, and so awfully tentative that Jean wants to grab a hold of it and show him that it’s okay, but he doesn’t want to rush it either.

He waits whilst Marco looks at him (once, twice, thrice) like he’s trying to memorize everything, and he waits for him when he opens his mouth to speak, but closes it shut, and then tries to speak again.

“Does this…” he starts, face burning red, “Um, does this mean I can kiss you?”

Did Marco just get closer? Was his nose always touching Jean’s? _Did he just ask if they could kiss?_

 __“__ Marco Bodt,” says Jean, this close to being blinded by just how gorgeous the love of his life looks up close, “You can kiss me till I’m dead and buried.”

__“_ Really?” _

__“_ Fuck_ yeah.”

Marco laughs this time. Voice clear and chiming like Christmas bells and Jean is about to join in because he feels more _giddy_ and _happy_ than he has his whole life, but right when his mouth opens, it is sealed shut by a pair of soft lips.

Jean has never felt electrified by a kiss. He has never been this aware of how _perfect_ it feels.

It’s like time stops moving around them. There is no noise in the room next door, there is no rain on the window, and there is nothing other than them both. He feels only the kiss and Marco’s calloused fingers on his burning skin when they gently push his chin up, and he feels the way their mouths slot together like they were made to be that way. He can feel Marco’s perfect, _perfect_ , smile on his and he never ever wants to let it go.

 

In a small house party, with cheese stains on his pants, Jean’s tiny human brain finally knows what the Big Bang must have felt like.

 

It feels like fire, and water, and like there are stars and whole _galaxies_ being born in his body. It feels like seeing light at the end of a long, long, tunnel, and like breathing for the first time, or like trying to breathe as much as you can for the last. It’s _everything_ but it feels like the beginning of an infinite stretch of _more_. His hands reach out to curl around Marco’s broad shoulders, and his neck, and Jean pulls him closer still. He can feel the brunet sigh before his sturdy hands intertwine over Jean’s back, moving him closer until their bodies are fitting together like puzzle pieces. It’s perfect. It’s more than perfect.

Jean has never believed in magic or something like destiny or fate; but when Marco kisses him, he can’t help but feel like something this powerful could be anything but supernatural. Feeling like there is lightning everywhere their mouths touch and this warmth inside that feels like a fireplace in between them; this can’t be normal, this can’t be something purely chemical.

Jean’s hands hold Marco in them as though he is a masterpiece of their own making, and he wonders how something as simple as a kiss can possibly feel like _this_.

 

 

‘ _But, then again_ ’ he thinks, ‘ _loving Marco Bodt has always been beautiful._ ’


End file.
